Yesterday, Dada, the Bean and I went to a local frozen yogurt place to get a sweet treat. Dada and I had split yard-mowing duties on our acre-plus lawn (we have a self-propelled mower, so it’s definitely a workout), and the weather was sweltering. The day was perfect for a little cool deliciousness, and the Bean loves her some fro-yo. All in all, one of my better weekend ideas.
We got there, got a high chair, and plopped the Bean down in it. Dada sat down with her at a table while I went through the ordering line, getting my cup, filling it with milk-chocolate-flavored awesomeness and topping it off with chopped almonds, brownie bites, chocolate chips, and a little hot fudge (I like chocolate. Shut up). Once I was done, I came back to our booth to hang out with the Bean while Dada went and got his yogurt ready. Except that, when I got there, he was sitting rigidly in his chair, jaw set, eyes narrowed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Come on, what’s the matter?” I looked around, checked the Bean, tried to see if anything was amiss. No dice. “You okay?”
“Fine.” Through gritted teeth.
Dada got up, got his yogurt in record time, and came back, scowling.
“Seriously, what’s the matter with you?” I asked, slightly annoyed now.
“Not right now.” He cut his eyes to the group of three young twenty-somethings sitting behind us.
“Ah,” I said, understanding. “Okay.” I let the subject drop.
Of course, I only let it drop until the trio behind us finished their yogurt and walked out the door. As soon as they were gone, I turned back to Dada and demanded to know what the hell was going on. I didn’t expect to be yanked back to middle school when he finally told me, though.